


Trouvaille

by FloodFeSTeR



Series: Words [3]
Category: Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sleepy Cuddles, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloodFeSTeR/pseuds/FloodFeSTeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(n.) something lovely discovered by chance; a windfall.</p><p>Chapter One: Alexithymia</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouvaille

She knew him, even without the makeup.

The scars were enough through the smear of rain against such fragile paint. Her eyes blinked against the onslaught and her heels clicked sharply against the concrete as she tried to reach him before he disappeared again.

Like he did every fucking time.

"Joker?"

He didn't look up, he continued to stare at the foot of the steps to her building. She stopped beside him and then moved in front of him, her belly tightening at the sight of him. She set her briefcase on the soaked ground, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them in her coat pocket. She reached up and took his face in her hands, careful for the scars, and she shook his jaw a little.

"Joker," she whispered. "Come on, come back to me baby. . ."

His eyes were blank, lifeless, and she hated when it happened.

Her lips pursed and she reached down, grabbing up the briefcase and she looped her right arm around his back, nudging him forward. His steps curled over themselves, clumsily pulling him through the automatic doors. She did most of the work, helping him into the elevator, keeping him upright. She pressed six and watched the doors close before she turned back to him. Rain was dripping from his nose and his coat, so she pulled what she could off and draped it over her arm, fingers still curled around the briefcase handle.

The doors opened and she pulled him forward again, not even bothered by his stumbling steps anymore. Her door was unlocked – not unusual because of her mindset – and she kicked the door shut behind them. She watched him slump into a varnished chair that went to her small dining room table in the center of her small kitchen. Her lips pursed as she hung her coat, shaking the water from her hair. She turned her back on him, walking into her bedroom to change.

As she slipped off her panty-hoes, she heard a creak and stood straight, poking her head out of her bedroom door.

He was still sitting there.

She took in a deep breath and turned back into her room, reaching back to unzip her skirt. It fluttered to her ankles and she stepped out of it silently, shrugging off her white button up. She pulled her night shorts and tank top from the end of her messy bed and pulled them on, yawning into her hand.

As her eyes squinted, she was slammed against her dresser.

Pain shot up her spine from where the small of her back connected with the sharp edge of her dresser and she felt a knife against her throat. A familiar blade, a familiar grit, a familiar thumb brushing rubber gloves against her skin. His eyes were flickering over her face and she was shaking, eyes wide in fear. His eyes settled on her lips and he pulled his thumb up, rubbing the tip of it against them harshly.

They would bruise.

He would always do this, do those little jump scares -- as she called them by this point -- and it was worse than if he actually drew blood.

"See," he breathed against her. "There's the _fear_ ," he spat out the last word, running the tip of his blade across the hollow in her throat, down her cleavage. "But what's this," his knee dug into the V between her legs and she trembled. "Oh no no," he waved a finger at her, the blade drawing blood from where it was pressed against the thin skin. "Naughty naughty girl."

She let out a shaky breath as he kicked her knees apart, fitting himself far too firmly between her legs. She hated when her body did that, betrayed her, better every bit of this twisted fuck so damn appealing. Her eyes trembled against his face and her knuckles turned white with their grip on the edge of the dresser. She was still in pain, but she couldn't help but be turned on, especially with that knee rubbing back and forth teasingly in precision, that sensitive little nub getting soft shocks of pain.

" _Please_ ," her voice was small and trembling.

He cackles, forcing his face into her throat and he inhaled deeply. "I believe it is more fun to tease you," his lips ghosted against her ear, barely touching. "What shall we do through your panties?"

She cringed. "Don't say that word."

He cackles again, but it was low and sent vibrations against her throat. "Panties."

She growled. "I said don't."

"And what cha gonna do about _iiiiit_ ," he drug his tongue against her throat as he drew the word out.

His teeth grazed her skin, her hips rocking back and forth softly against his knee. He reached up and brushed the heavy sweep of her hair back, his lips feverish against her cold, damp skin.

She ground her teeth and pushed him back, finding some kind of relief from the sweltering heat between her legs and the pain in her lower back. Her cheeks were hot and she glared at him while he smirked back at her; she adjusted herself a little and tried to gather her dignity.

"Prick," she muttered, stomping into the other room.

He followed her, slinging his body around lazily as he poked the tip of his knife into his finger. He watched her hips slither as she walked into the kitchen, meeting her golden eyes when she glared over her shoulder at him.

"Now, isn't that all you keep me around for?"

She grumbled and opened her refrigerator, pulling out a half empty bottle of wine and she grabbed a glass, filling it to the rim. She set the bottle on the false granite counter and began to nurse the glass like it was a bottle. When she was done, and there was just a drop left in the glass, she turned to him. Her face was placid but her cheeks were still flushed.

"Why were you waiting on my doorstep, Joker?"

That actually made him pause and he rocked his bottom jaw back and forth for a moment before he slinked around the kitchen counter, leaning across it towards her. She stared at him down the bridge of her nose, as if he were nothing.

"Ya see," he pointed at her and the finger bobbed for a moment. "That right there just drives me crazy."

"You're not crazy, Joker," she whispered.

He waved a hand and pushed off the counter. "Whatever," he muttered. "I came because, well," he hesitated, fingering a framed picture of a dog she had sitting on her coffee table.

She stared at him, placid. "Because why, Joker?"

He didn't say anything still.

And what was she expecting, some heartfelt plea for her love?

Some confession that he just simply wanted to see her?

No, that would never happen.

But she could do something, something she always did.

She swallowed thickly and walked around the bar, sighing as she took his right hand in hers. She threaded their fingers and he looked up at her, seeing the small, sensitive, smile she rarely gave.

"Come on," she tugged him towards her bedroom. "It's late, I'm tired."

He didn't protest, didn't say a damn thing. And she knew he wouldn't. Because, when she let him into her bed, when she let him against her side and she cooed to him, telling him it would all be alright, he didn't have to say anything. He just had to listen.

He just had to crumble.

Just a little bit. . .


End file.
